


Target

by wildes



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildes/pseuds/wildes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James May and Richard Hammond are professional hitmen, assigned a job in a small English town. But what happens when they realise they don't want to go through with the hit?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - this is a work of fiction.
> 
> This was written in April for Camp NaNo. I wasn't sure if I should post it ~~because it's probably not very good and it's also cheesier than that Valentine's thing I wrote and that had _paper hearts_ in James' hair~~. But well, here it is, and I hope you'll like it ~~despite its various weaknesses~~. 
> 
> If that didn't scare you off - thanks for being a super human being! The good news is that the fic is more or less finished, it just needs a ton of editing. Please comment/kudos if you like it to encourage me! :)

_James_

The room is grim, and that’s putting it kindly. James sits on the edge of his bed, looking around it. He has been here for two days, now, and still he feels out of place, like a guest in someone else’s flat. It’s a peculiar idea to think that this is his home now, for the foreseeable future. James cringes at the thought.  
  
He’s holding a cup of tea and although he would never admit to being nervous, the way he is clutching the white porcelain cup in his hands, his knuckles almost white, gives him away. There are seagulls screeching outside – the noise has been constant since James first got here. He doesn’t think he will get used to it any time soon.

The room is small, and ghastly: the paintwork is falling out of the walls, the curtains are hideous and dusty and the mattresses in the two beds placed at one corner of the room smell bad. James has chosen his pillows carefully, opting for the least smelly ones. If he is honest, he’d felt a bit bad about that, but then, it's not his fault, not really. James reasons he's just being sensible and looking out for himself – something that in his line of work is absolutely crucial – and anyway, it is the other bloke’s fault for not managing to turn up in time. Turn up late and get the bad pillows. That’s just the way the world works.

James wonders what his next partner in crime will be like. In the five years of doing this job, James has had the fortune (or in some cases, extreme misfortune) to work with some interesting people. He just hopes that this bloke will be someone sane. James has learned not to expect too much, and he very much doubts that his next partner will be able to match his last one. James had worked with a guy called Jeremy for an extraordinarily long stint, fourteen months, and together they had carried out plenty of jobs successfully and, James likes to think, with a certain gracefulness. He’d rather enjoyed working with Jeremy, even though the guy could be a bit of a knob sometimes.

Of course, Jeremy had been the complete opposite to James; it seemed that James was forever paired up with chaps who were very unlike himself. He supposes it makes sense, in a way, since James and Jeremy had balanced each other out nicely. But still, sometimes James wishes he could be paired with someone sensible and practical, someone who would think before opening their mouths, someone who’d think things through before doing them.

He doesn’t think his luck is about to change now. Granted, he doesn’t know much about the bloke he is about to meet soon, should he care to actually turn up to the flat they are set to share for the foreseeable future. The only thing James knows about him is that he apparently goes by the handle “The Fighting Peacock”. The mere thought of a handle as idiotic and childish as that makes James want to roll his eyes. How is he supposed to be serious about his job if he has to spend his days with a man he has to call The Fighting Peacock? In his mind, James has already abbreviated the man’s handle to just Cock.

There’s a loud bang outside and James jumps in his seat slightly. He can’t help it: he keeps expecting to hear a knock on the door, or a key being turned in the lock. It’s past eleven in the evening, and James knows this guy should be here already.

After a few more minutes of staring idly at the door, James decides to go to sleep. Clearly this guy is an asshole, and despite his text earlier he is not coming today. He is sure he is annoyed enough that he won’t be able to catch sleep, but as soon as he turns the pale light out and sets his head on the still quite shoddy pillow, he falls asleep. He wakes up hours later, not really knowing what woke him. Snapping his eyes open wide and instinctively tightening his grip around his gun under the pillow, James draws in a controlled breath.

“I tried not to wake you, sorry,” a voice says from close to him and James reacts quickly, without thinking, leaping up from the bed and pointing his gun into the darkness. His heart is hammering in his chest wildly, and he isn’t quite awake enough yet to think clearly.

“Hey, hey, hey,” the voice says, “calm down. I’m The Fighting Peacock.” He says this with a weird sort of amusement to his tone, and James lowers his weapon, covering his eyes with his hand.

“What are you doing, sneaking around in the middle of the night like that?” James snaps and punches the lights on, somewhat pleased when his new colleague cringes and squints at him, his eyes clearly not liking the sudden burst of light. “I almost shot you, you bloody idiot.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” the guy says, “Captain,” he adds with a cheeky smirk, addressing James by his handle for the first time.

“How the hell did you get in so quietly, anyway?” James asks, sitting back down on his bed, rubbing his temple. His heartbeat is slowly settling in his chest, but he still feels a bit out of breath, and very groggy to have been scared awake so unpleasantly.

The guy smiles a lop-sided smile. “I wouldn’t be much of a hitman if I couldn’t enter a flat quietly, don’t you think?” he asks, throwing his bags on his bed, eyeing the mattress suspiciously.

“Well,” James says slowly, leaning his head in his hands. “I did wake up, eventually, so…”

“Yeah,” the guy says, cheerfully, lifting his gaze to meet James’ eyes. “I sneezed. I wouldn’t really be comfortable working with you if you hadn’t woken up.”

James surprises himself by letting out a small, low chuckle. “Fair enough,” he says, looking at his colleague properly for the first time. He looks younger than James, by some margin, even though it’s difficult to tell in the half-light. The guy is clearly very fit, and he has spent some time in the sun. His hair appears to be carefully styled, and he is wearing a pair of jeans James would describe fashionable.

He is, quite frankly, nothing James had been expecting. This guy looks like someone from show business, someone who you’d expect to see in a quite trendy pub surrounded by lots of beautiful women, or on television presenting a day time television programme - _Total Wipeout_ , or something. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in this terrible flat, in a small English seaside town, in a life without family or friends, in a life filled with uncertainty and violence.

“I’m Richard, by the way,” the guy says after a while. He is regarding James with a steady look, his eyes not giving away much. “Richard Hammond. I know some blokes don’t like to tell their names and such but I can’t very well have you calling me The Fighting Peacock all the time, can I?”

“I was going to just abbreviate that to Cock,” James confesses, scratching his face. Inwardly, however, he sighs a breath of relief. He got used to knowing his partner by name with Jeremy, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to relearn mumbling out stupid handles at every turn. “James May,” James adds and stands up, holds out a hand and waits for Richard to take it. His handshake is firm and non-hesitant, and he keeps his eyes locked in James’.

James has a feeling Richard will be a very hard person to figure out.

“James,” Richard says, his eyes glittering. “Are you really a James or is that a Bond thing?”

James rolls his eyes. “I’m not really in the Bond line of work, am I?” he asks, but something about Richard’s face makes him incapable of not returning the man’s smile.

Richard shrugs. “I don’t know, I think you could pull it off,” he says and sits down on the bed. There is something about Richard that makes it hard to stop looking at him. James finds himself utterly baffled by the man. He sits down on his own bed and watches as Richard struggles to take off his shoes – a pair of trendy, colourful Converse, of course.

“So,” James starts, rather awkwardly, and he stops to clear his throat. “How did you end up… doing this for a job?” James pauses for a second, but when Richard doesn’t jump at the chance to reply, he adds, “It’s just that you don’t really seem the type. How did you get into this?”

Several seconds pass with Richard just looking at James quite intensively, his face unreadable and completely void of any emotion. James bites his lower lip, resisting the urge to start tapping the side of his thigh nervously with his fingers. First impressions, in their line of work especially, are very important, and James doesn’t want to show any signs of weakness so early on in their acquaintance. Eventually Richard flinches to motion, grinning widely without it ever quite reaching his eyes. He shakes his head.

“Do you have anything to eat? I am starving,” Richard says instead of answering James’ question.

“Check the fridge,” James replies, nonplussed, and watches as Richard disappears from the room to the tiny kitchen. He briefly entertains the idea of apologising to the younger man for trying to pry information out of him that in all honesty is none of his business. He decides against it, figuring that he can do it later when they have got to know each other a bit better, if he still feels like he ought to.

“Can I eat your McDonald’s leftovers?” Richard hollers after a second. “And do you want a cup of tea? I know it’s a bit late but it’s not as if we’ll have to wake up early tomorrow.”

“Sure,” James says in reply to both questions. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. Somehow, he feels out of his depth.

Outside, seagulls are still screeching.


	2. Chapter 2

_James_

The next morning, James wakes up to his phone going off. It’s a message from an anonymous number telling them to be near the pier at precisely 12:00. Grumbling, and feeling very groggy, James glances at the clock. It’s already 9:30, but it feels like five am. Probably because James had spent half the night drinking tea with his new mate, Richard.

“Get up,” he mumbles at the sleeping man on the bed next to his. He doesn’t think that is enough to wake him up, but obviously Richard isn’t a very deep sleeper (and who in their right minds would be, doing this for a job), because James is met with a very quick reply.

“No,” Richard says, pulling his blanket over his head and hiding himself from the light James flicks on. “I am sleeping, fuck off.”

“We need to be near the pier at noon,” James explains, and it’s very hard to stifle a chuckle at the sight of the man next to him twisting around under his blanket, only the tips of his hair poking out from under it. “It’s a long walk.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got a car.”

“Right,” James says. In all honesty, he owns a car, too – a black Fiat Panda – but he prefers not to use it for the job, as there is always a chance of it getting messy and James can’t stand the idea of the upholstery of his Panda getting ruined. “Do you want tea or coffee with your breakfast?”

“Coffee,” comes the reply from under the blanket, in a small voice, and James rolls his eyes. Still, he supposes Richard must be a bit tired after only making it to the flat very late in the night, so he figures he should probably give him a break and cook him breakfast – just this once. He stacks beans and bacon and toast and Richard’s cup of coffee on a tray and brings it back to the bedroom after half an hour or so.

“Your breakfast, sir,” James says dryly, and watches as Richard snaps his eyes open and sits up abruptly.

“You made me breakfast,” Richard says, thoroughly baffled. His hair is all over the place and he’s not wearing a shirt, and James has to make himself look away. He locks his gaze in Richard’s wide, confused eyes. In hindsight, he isn’t much better off staring at his eyes than he would be staring at his defined chest. It feels all too easy getting lost in them.

“Yes,” James says simply, feeling a bit daft. “Eat and get dressed, we have to get going.”

“You aren’t trying to poison me, are you?” Richard asks, and James knows he is only half-joking. He sighs deeply, and reaches for Richard’s plate.

“I can taste everything first if you like, you big oaf.”

Richard slaps his hand away. “No, it’s alright. I trust you.” He cringes as he says this for some reason, as if he’s somehow made a fool of himself.

“Good.” James mumbles. Then, “What car do you have? I thought you just flew in from London.”

Richard swallows around his food. “A Porsche 911,” he says with a proud little smile that James instantly likes on him. He feels a twinge of annoyance in his chest. He is used to partners less attractive than Richard, and it’s been such a long time since James has had the opportunity to look at someone so attractive so closely, let alone talk to them, that he is starting to think he might be utterly screwed. It’s also been three years since James has last had sex, not that he is counting. But it definitely doesn’t help, being so sex-deprived in the face of something like Richard.

“A Porsche 911,” James repeats slowly. “And how are you going to work that into your cover story, you fathead?” He is a bit irritated, too; they are two grown men living together in a shoddy flat in a small English town, and to figure out a story to cover that is already difficult enough without an expensive car thrown into the mix. “It’s going to draw attention to us. We should drive mine.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have a car,” Richard says lightly, like he doesn't have a worry in the world. He takes a forkful of beans and bacon and stuffs it in his mouth, letting out a contented moan. “This is incredible, I don’t even care if it _is_ full of poison.”

“I have a Fiat Panda,” James replies, trying very hard not to look at the way Richard’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows. “A car that makes sense, considering our surroundings, I think you’ll agree.”

“So you’re suggesting,” Richard says and bites into his toast, taking a sip of his coffee. “That we drive your Fiat Panda rather than my Porsche 911. You know, I was already thinking that I rather liked you, but now I’m starting to think that you might actually be mad.”

“Shut up,” James mumbles. “You know I’m right.”

“Anyway, you’ve got to spend the money on something, right?” Richard says, still quite preoccupied with his breakfast, while James is busy trying to figure him out. “Can’t really buy myself a house, don’t have to pay rent or any of that shit – what else could you spend all of it on?”

James shrugs. He really doesn’t have an answer to that. In the five years James has been doing this job, he hasn’t really used the money he’s got from it for anything. He hasn’t had any holidays, he hasn’t bought cars other than his beloved Panda. James isn’t even sure if he ever wants to use the money on anything. Now some of it is in a suitcase tucked under his bed, and the rest sitting on a bank account somewhere safe. James doesn’t even have a broad idea about how much he owns. He figures by now it must be quite a bit.

“You could buy spam,” James jokes and watches as Richard’s lips curve into a slight smile.

“Yes, James, I could buy spam,” he says. “But on the other hand, I quite like my 911. _And_ my Aston Martin. Also quite like all of my bikes.”

James sighs.

*

Near the pier, there are many seagulls. They make James very uncomfortable. They are vile animals, not really concerned with anything other than themselves, and they make a very unsettling sound. As if that’s not enough reason to hate them, there’s always the chance of one of them crapping all over your clothes. James straightens his shirt, glancing at his colleague leaning against the wall next to him, looking relaxed, smoking a fag.

“Stop fidgeting,” Richard says after a moment, elbowing James in the ribs and offering him a cigarette. James accepts, fishing a Marlboro out of Richard’s packet and closing his lips around it, waiting for Richard to light it.

“Meeting them makes me nervous,” James says after he’s blown the smoke out through his nose.

“They are just middle men,” Richard says reasonably, lighting another cigarette. “They don’t know what this is about. They are simpletons paid well to deliver documents without reading them, that’s all.”

“I know,” James mumbles. “They still make me nervous, though. I don't understand why they don't just text us all of the details.”

Richard snaps his eyes at him. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just say that,” he says, not entirely kindly. “I would hate to think I’m working with an idiot.”

James supposes it’s fair enough and he shuts up, trying his best not to tap his fingers against his leg nervously. He takes a few deep breaths between drags of his cigarette. It’s winding from the sea, and James can almost taste the salt in the air around them. Even with the wind, it’s shaping up to be quite a hot day, and James briefly considers taking off his jacket. He's just about to ask Richard for another cigarette, when a young bloke on a bicycle stops in front of them.

He’s a spotty guy, not much older than a teenager, and he’s wearing a pair of dark shades. If James had felt nervous, this guy certainly wins in that respect. His hands are shaking where he’s holding his bag, and his lower lip is trembling slightly as he begins talking. Still, his words come out calm and measured.

“Excuse me, but is one of you called Captain by any chance?”

James nods shortly, feeling Richard’s eyes on him. Without even looking, he knows he’ll be wearing a playful smile on his stupid face.

“Only I have a delivery for you,” the guy says, searching his bag and producing a small, black, sealed folder. He hands it over without looking at James’ face. “There you go, sir.”

James nods again, and expects the guy to leave. He doesn’t want to engage in small talk with these people; they unnerve him enough anyway.

“Thank you,” Richard says next to him, pointedly, as if he is flabbergasted in the face of James’ rudeness. The guy takes off with some speed, disappearing behind the nearest corner in no time at all. “James,” Richard says lowly, “it won’t hurt you to be _polite._ ”

“Can’t believe I’m getting a lecture on manners from you,” James says. He already feels a lot more relaxed, now that he has the undoubtedly incriminating folder safely in his own hands. “You were two days late to the flat, and even then you only managed to barge in at an unholy hour and scare me half to death.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Richard says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. There’s a smug smile on his face, and it would appear that he isn’t one to shy away from pointless arguments. That’s definitely something that feels like home to James. His last partner Jeremy had certainly shared that particular personality trait – the hours James had spent bickering about incredibly trivial things with him had been endless. “But the point is,” Richard continues, “that if you were concerned about him being suspicious about the slightly dodgy delivery, you coming across all cold-blooded killer isn’t going to make him less suspicious, is it?”

James has never thought of it quite like that and he cringes. “You are right,” he says reluctantly.

“Often am,” Richard grins. He pushes at James’ side slightly, in a playful manner, and James almost drops the folder. Usually he would be one to quickly protest to unprovoked human contact, but for some reason he realises that with Richard, he doesn’t really mind. Something about Richard’s challenging smirk makes James want to sling an arm around his shoulders and pull him against his side. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recognises that thinking like this is dangerous and it could, in the worst possible scenario, cost him his life. After all, he knows practically nothing about Richard, apart from the fact that he is a trained criminal.

“Do you want to get a curry?” James asks, mostly to distract himself from his thoughts.

Richard flashes him a bright grin and James mirrors it despite himself. “Yes, please,” he says earnestly. “And a couple of bottles of wine, don’t you think?”

“Naturally,” James replies, wondering if getting drunk with Richard will be a terrible idea. He hadn’t got drunk with Jeremy until after weeks of working together and getting to know each other, just for the sake of being cautious; and here he is, planning to get drunk with Hammond on their first evening together.

He listens to Richard hum under his breath as they get in the Panda, watches the way his T-shirt clings to his chest and the way his biceps flex as he puts his seatbelt on.

Sighing, he turns the key in the ignition. Secretly he is already starting to hope that this job will be one that won’t take them long at all, that he’ll be able to move to a new town with a new partner before he can get himself into a world of trouble with this mysterious man.


	3. Chapter 3

_Richard_

 

“This is brilliant,” Richard says, mouth full of food. He thinks he should probably slow down with the wine, but it’s delicious. Working with Richard's former partner Oz had had its advantages, one of which had been the man’s incredible and vast (at times very irritatingly so) wine knowledge. In half a year’s time, Richard had managed to pick up a thing or two from him, including that Chardonnay goes well with a proper curry.

James nods at him from the other end of the table, his eyes slightly glazed over from the wine. Richard smiles at him. This, sharing a quiet dinner together, feels more natural than it ought to, really. The man in front of him, with his stupid hair and perhaps misleadingly kind eyes, is still a complete stranger to him, and yet it’s easy to joke with him, easy to smile up at him and mean it.

He knows he shouldn’t pry and that he should try his best to keep his distance from James. After all, they are never going to be friends. If Richard is lucky, he will make a partner that he can trust with possibly even his life, but at some point they will have to stop working together, and then they will never see each other ever again. Making friends, thus, is pointless.

Still, Richard can’t help feeling curious about James. And it would seem that James is certainly curious about Richard, as he’d asked about how Richard had got into the business almost immediately after meeting him. There is something intriguing about James, the way his eyes flicker at Richard at every turn, the way he smiles at him almost shyly, and the way he listens to every word Richard says carefully and thoughtfully. It’s almost like James _wants_ to make friends with Richard, and it’s nice but also disconcerting and something Richard very much isn’t used to. His partners, although all of them have been delightfully sane and at times even good company, have all still been distant at heart, and quite self-involved. James seems different: caring and considerate, and good fun. It's as unsettling as it is pleasant.

“Should we open the ruddy file then?” Richard says, leaning back in his chair, taking a sip of the wine. It really is splendid and he closes his eyes for a split second.

“Probably,” James replies quietly, mirroring Richard by leaning back in his own chair. They stare at each other for a few quiet seconds, until Richard gets up and fetches the folder from where it’s on James’ bed. He throws it to James and sits back down, picking up his glass of wine.

“Go on then,” he mumbles and watches as James’ eyes skim over the papers.

“It’s a long job,” James says, and Richard has to force his face to stay neutral. Inwardly, he is very pleased, not minding the idea of spending more time with James at all. “A _year_ , this says. The job is to be carried out in July next year.”

“That should leave us with a lot of free time, then,” Richard says, feeling relaxed. “Think we might have to drink ourselves into oblivion, there’s not _that_ much to do in this shithole of a town.”

“I like this town,” James says distractedly, not lifting his gaze from the papers in front of him. “Anyway I think this will require a lot of careful planning, so I don’t think we’re in for a holiday, here. We have to make it seem like natural causes.”

Richard rolls his eyes. "It can't be difficult enough for us to need a year to do it." He pauses for a moment. “What has he done?”

“It says ‘unknown’ on that bit, for some reason,” James says, drawing his eyebrows together. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Unknown?” Richard asks, sitting up in his chair. “That is weird. Who is he?”

“She,” James corrects. “Her name is Layla Forrester, she’s from New York, owns a small business.”

“ _She_?” Richard asks, and it comes out as a bit of a shriek. “It’s not a woman, is it?”

“Yes,” James says in a steady voice, lifting his gaze and finally meeting Richard’s eyes. “It is. Haven’t you had one before?”

Richard scoffs, setting his glass on the table with some force. “Of course I bloody haven’t!” he says, and although it’s less of a shriek now, it’s still not very manly. In the back of his mind, Richard is aware that he should calm down and think about this rationally – whatever his feelings about the job, it might not be a wise idea to share them with James. His brain doesn’t quite keep up with his tongue, however. “I’m not going to kill a girl.”

Crossing his hands over his chest in a determined manner, Richard watches as James produces a pair of reading glasses from his bag and puts them on his nose. In any other situation, Richard would be prepared to take the mickey out of him for those, but now the situation is just wrong, and Richard swallows with difficulty.

“It’s not ideal, I grant you,” James says after a quiet minute or two, still peering down at the papers. “But it’s a long time until we have to actually carry this out. You’ll have a chance to get accustomed to the idea.”

“I’m not going to get ‘accustomed to the idea’,” Richard says at once, voice full of scorn. Maybe he’d been wrong about James. If he thinks this is not out of order in any way, then clearly he can’t be a very good guy at all.

James lifts his gaze, looking at Richard over his specs. His glasses have stupid, colourful stripes on them. “I know it’s brutal,” James says, and Richard can’t help but hate the way James is talking to him like he’s a petulant child. “But you know how the organisation works. It’s not like she’s innocent. She has done something terrible.”

“It says ‘unknown’,” Richard points out. “You don’t know she has done anything. She could be innocent for all you know!”

“I bet it says ‘unknown’ for a reason,” James says calmly, not raising his voice. It is annoying Richard as well, now, because what right has James to be so calm when Richard is absolutely fuming?

“Yeah?” He asks, sarcasm dripping off his tone, his hands in tight fists against the table. “And what sort of a reason do you think that could be?”

James shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“We’ll have to ask them,” Richard says, only vaguely aware how mad and feverish he must sound. He certainly feels that way, caught off guard and slightly out of control. “We have to find out.”

“We can’t ask them, you know that, it’ll get us killed,” James says, and an edge appears to his tone for the first time. “And who would you ask, anyway? We have no means of contacting them.”

“We could find a way,” Richard says, knowing that it’s true. The way these operations work requires that there’s someone from the organisation near-by at all times, in order to prevent conflicts. They are invisible, sure, but with enough effort and determinedness Richard knows they could gauge someone from the organisation out and demand them for answers.

“You’d be dead long before you could reach them,” James says, unshakably calm again, and it makes Richard _furious._ He stands up abruptly, fists against his sides, and watches as James regards him with an almost serene expression on his face.

Richard paces for a while, and James doesn’t say anything, just takes tiny sips of his wine as if there’s nothing at all wrong in his world, and Richard hates him then, for being so calm and unshaken in the face of something like this.

“You really are cold-blooded, aren’t you?” Richard says, spits the words out with as much venom as he can gather in his voice. He knows exactly where his gun is at that moment, the top drawer near his bed, and he knows where James’ gun is, under his pillows. He regards James for a moment with narrowed eyes, trying to size him up. He doesn’t think James will attack him, but at the same time, how could he know? He looks at James’ frame and for the first time wonders whether he could take him if needed. He thinks so, but he can’t be sure.

James sighs, taking his glasses off. He leans back against the chair and looks at Richard steadily, with his mouth a thin, but not unfriendly, line. Richard lets himself relax a little. It doesn’t look like there is any real danger of James becoming violent.

“Look,” James says quietly. “Sit down with me, Richard.”

Richard doesn’t know why he does it, but James’ quiet, unthreatening words make him comply instantly and he slumps himself back down on his chair, curling his fingers around his glass of wine and taking a generous gulp. James watches him with wide, earnest eyes and Richard can feel his anger slipping away fast, his breath getting caught in his throat as he stares into the other man’s icy, blue eyes.

“What do you want to do?” James asks then, just as quietly as before, his words careful and measured. “Richard, I’m not your enemy. I don’t want to be.”

Richard draws in a deep breath. “You know nothing about me,” he says quietly as it dawns on him.

“No,” James says, and there’s a hint of a smile playing in the corners of his eyes. “Not really. But you don't seem too bad.”

Richard bites his lower lip, not really knowing what to make of the situation. When he had started this work, it had made him feel like he had all the power in the world, like he could never be out of his depth again.

He knows he’d been wrong, now. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James and Richard meet Layla, and Richard works on their cover story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slightly regret starting to post this thing, now. Try and bear with some of these chapters, I promise there are a couple of better ones coming up at some point. I also have a couple of daft graphics to go with this thing that I made before Camp NaNo started, if you'd like to see them. :)

_James_

 

They don’t talk about it at breakfast the next day. James pours himself a gracious amount of sugar puffs and watches as Richard wrinkles his nose at his partly burnt piece of toast. It’s all too easy to get lost looking at him. His hair is dishevelled from the night and his restless sleep – he’d kept James up half the night by tossing and turning around in his bed, grumbling under his breath and letting out slight snores before flinching awake with yet more noise – and he hasn’t yet put a shirt on.

“Put some clothes on,” James says and swallows his food.

Richard grimaces at him and makes no move towards his wardrobe, pouring himself a glass of orange juice instead.

“I want coffee,” he says and his voice sounds hoarse.

James tells him that in that case he should probably make some, and decides that it’s a good idea to remind him that James is not actually his paid chef. Richard replies by rolling his eyes and finally getting up to load the coffee maker.

In hindsight, maybe James should have just given in and made him that cup of coffee. That way, he wouldn’t have had to witness the sight of Richard’s bare back so early on in the morning. He swallows, dry this time, and determinedly but reluctantly turns his gaze away from his colleague.

“Please put some clothes on,” he says quietly and shoves a spoonful of cereal in his mouth, keeping his eyes down in the bowl.

“It’s shaping up to be a hot day,” Richard says lightly, ignoring James. He turns around and there’s an insufferable, smug grin on his face.

James puts his spoon down. “What does that mean? That you’re not planning on wearing clothes at all?”

Richard shrugs. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, smug smirk in place, and there’s a touch of cheekiness to his tone. It takes a lot of effort for James not to swallow at his words.

“Yes,” he says firmly, instead. “Yes, you are.”

Richard squints at him with a delighted smile. James can’t help but wonder how it’s possible for him to be so bubbly and cheerful this morning, when he’d spent all of yesterday sulking and miserable, barely saying a word to James after their curry, just regarding him from his bed with murderous eyes (well, not murderous, not literally, James guesses – hopes).

“Prude,” Richard comments, but leaves the kitchen and comes back a few seconds later wearing a loose T-shirt. “Happy?”

“Yes,” James says as Richard sits back down. “What do you want to do today?”

“I don’t know,” Richard says. “Get drunk?”

“About the job,” James says dryly and watches as Richard’s face falls.

“I think we should talk to this Layla, at some point,” Richard says quietly. “See what she’s like. If she’s the cold-blooded child-killer type.”

James rolls his eyes. “You reckon you can just tell that by looking at her, do you?”

“Well, I don’t know! I suppose you have a better idea then, _Captain?”_

As the matter of fact, James doesn’t, but he nods anyway. “We should proceed slowly. We have a _year_ to figure this out. There’s no point in panicking and making rash decisions.”

Richard looks annoyed, but he nods. “Fine. But let’s still go look at her shop.”

“Alright,” James says and finishes his juice. “Let’s go then.” He stands up and puts the dishes in the sink, collects Richard’s dishes from in front of him as well, and lets some hot water run over them for a bit.

“I want to drive,” Richard says as they step out of the flat into the street. It’s a hot summer’s day, and the sky is extraordinarily blue – there isn’t even a hint of a cloud anywhere, not even a tiny whiff of wind. The air smells like seagull poo.

“It’s my car,” James says, gripping the car keys tightly in his left hand. He has a funny feeling his words won’t actually end the argument, and he’s instantly proven right when Richard grumbles out his protest.

“Yes,” he mutters. “But it’s your fault I can’t drive my car, so I think it’s only fair you’ll let me drive yours.”

“Well,” James says, pretending to consider Richard’s point. “I still won’t, sorry, mate.”

It’s only because he had been prepared for such an eventuality that he manages to keep hold of the keys after Richard lunges forward to grab them from his hand. He steps back just as Richard tries to elbow him in the ribs. Then he looks at Richard’s miserable face and sighs. He thinks it might be a bad sign how easily he is willing to give in to this man, but without thinking about it too much he tosses Richard he keys. Richard looks surprised, a wide grin spreading on his face as he catches the keys swiftly in his right hand with good reflexes. He makes his way to the driver’s seat and James goes around the car to sit in the passenger seat, positively resigned.

He doesn’t regret his choice when Richard turns the key in the ignition and beams at James with almost child-like glee in his eyes before setting off.

They drive in silence for a little while. The shop they’re heading for is downtown, only a mile or two from the flat, but Richard takes the road out of town. James wishes he could stop glancing at his direction but it’s hard: he finds the changes in Richard’s expression fascinating as he tests the car, trying to take it to its limits. His feet work on the pedals expertly, and his touch on the steering wheel is light, his fingers curling around it softly.

“It’s quite a nippy car, this, actually,” Richard comments after a few minutes. “I quite like it, I hate to admit.”

James chuckles. “You wanted it to be rubbish, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Richard says with a smirk. “It would have made my complaining about my 911 rotting in a storage building easier.”

“You can still do that,” James says lightly. “I don’t mind.” The smile seems to be stuck on his face and he hates it, hates how warm he feels inside after years of not really feeling much of anything.

“Maybe later,” Richard says and presses his foot down on the accelerator. He changes gear and his hand touches James’ thigh slightly.

“Don’t touch me,” James mumbles without thinking it through. He isn’t usually very keen on human contact, but now he isn’t too surprised to find that he hadn’t actually minded Richard’s hand touching his thigh all that much. Still, the words escape his mouth in a forced habit.

Richard looks at him with wide eyes. “Well, I can’t help it, can I?” he squeaks and it really shouldn’t make James grin, so of course that is exactly what it does. “You can only blame yourself for owning such a tiny little car.”

James doesn’t reply, just looks out of the window. There isn’t much of scenery, as such, it’s mostly just plain fields, but James enjoys watching it anyway. He feels almost peculiarly calm and relaxed, and it takes him a lot of effort to try and think when he’s last felt like this. Years ago, probably. Being a bit wired and constantly cautious with a dash of paranoia has become his second nature in the past five years. It’s scary to think that the small, fighty man next to him has managed to strip him of all of that in just a couple of days.

James still doesn’t even know anything about him. As much as James enjoys looking out of the window, looking at Richard is still more interesting. Not for the first time in his life, James wishes he could read another person’s mind.

“We should probably head back,” Richard says and flicks the turn signal on. “It’s almost noon and we have some paper to shop.”

James nods. “Think we might have a lot of paper to shop in the next few months, don’t you think?”

Richard doesn’t miss a beat. “I think we should apply for a loyalty card right away.”

*

Richard parks the car a short walk away from the shop. It’s a small shop, in the middle of an Indian restaurant (“Well, at least that’s an upside,” Richard comments), and an expensive looking shoe shop. The paper shop itself is called The Small Paper Boutique, and it’s decorated to look all cutesy and inviting. Richard cringes as he sees it.

“It’s going to be full of old ladies buying stuff for home-made postcards,” he says lowly. “There is no way we won’t raise suspicion walking in there.”

“Oh stop being such a wimp,” James says quietly, reaching for the door handle. “Everybody needs paper.”

They step in to the shop with some caution, looking around themselves frantically. The shop seems empty, and it is full of sickly coloured decorations and motivational posters. James shoots Richard a look and Richard nods.

“Oh hello, can I help you, love?”

James turns around to see a woman, in her fifties, with her hair in a braid and with big glasses shoved half-way up her nose.

“Er,” he says intelligently, thrown off by the sudden appearance of the woman. Glancing at her – quite hefty – chest, James realises it’s _her_. There’s a name tag pinned to her blouse, the name Layla written in a supposedly funny font.

“Excuse my partner here,” Richard says eventually when James fails to come up with anything sensible to say. “We were just looking for some copy paper, you know, for printing.”

“Of course,” the woman says, smiling warmly. “A4 alright?”

“Yes, please,” Richard says and smiles brightly at her, all white teeth and charm. When the woman turns away, he elbows James in the ribs and shoots him an annoyed look, and well, fair enough. Perhaps James should have been better mentally prepared for this.

“How many of these do you need?” Layla asks, pointing at reams of A4 paper. “Just one?”

“Yeah, I think one will do,” Richard says.

“Alright then,” she says and moves over behind the counter. “Do you need anything else?” She directs the question so clearly at James that James can’t put off talking to her for longer, even though he would very much like to let Richard handle the situation.

“Um, no, I think that’s fine,” he mumbles and can almost hear Richard rolling his eyes.

“Sorry about him,” Richard says, and from the tone of his voice it’s easy to tell he is actually rolling his eyes. “We just moved here.”

“Oh did you?” Layla says, peering at them over her specs quizzically. “Where did you come from then? London, I presume, for two young lads like you two.”

James has a funny feeling she means something entirely else with ‘two young lads’. After all, James isn’t that much younger than her. Her eyes dart back and forth from Richard to James, and James starts to feel a little bit hot under his collar.

“Yes,” Richard grins. “We are only here for the time being, though. See, he is a writer, we thought we would come and hide away for a bit, give him a chance to focus on his novel.”

James stares at Richard, trying very hard not to look like this is the first time he hears this particular story. It’s a bit disconcerting how good at lying Richard is, the flow of his tongue natural and incredibly believable.

“That is lovely,” she says pointedly, looking at James. “What are you writing about then, love?”

James is sure he’s only imagining the condescending edge to her tone. He swallows, looking at Richard briefly before mumbling, “History. The Second World War… and things.”

“How lovely,” Layla says, not really looking at James at all. She seems to be quite preoccupied staring at Richard, who has a lot of his top buttons undone on his shirt for some reason. He is grinning smugly, of course, the daft little man, ruffling his hair. James watches as Layla’s eyes follow the movement of his hand. James sighs, and that seems to startle Layla back to her senses. “That would be 5.99, then, dear,” she says softly – to Richard, of course. “It’s on special offer right now.”

“Is it,” James remarks and fights the urge to roll his eyes.

They leave the shop with a pink paper bag with the ream of paper inside it, and Richard holding Layla’s business card between his fingers. She’d told them, or Richard to be more accurate, to not to hesitate to give her a call if they ever needed anything. James supposes that means their first encounter with her had been a success.

“Cappuccino?” Richard asks, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah alright,” James says, and they enter a small coffee shop on the corner of the street. Richard slumps himself down on a seat next to the window. “Do you reckon this is one of those places where you should order at the counter?”

“Nah,” Richard says, relaxed. “They will come and ask us, eventually.”

Turns out he’s right. James sips on his coffee, finds that it’s very, very hot, and for some reason it’s in a glass, which is just poncey and stupid and impractical. He sets the glass down on the table.

“So that went well,” he says, expecting for Richard to agree.

“You were utterly useless,” Richard says, and although he has a point – a bit harsh. He waves Layla’s business card in his fingers triumphantly. “But I saved the situation. What should we call her with? I can’t think of anything I would need to ask someone who owns a paper shop.”

James stares down at his _glass_ of coffee (glass!), and says, rather more sullenly than he means to, “I think you should just ask her out.”

Richard smirks. “What?” he asks, with innocent, wide eyes, but James already knows him well enough to know that he totally had not been oblivious to the fact that Layla Forrester had checked him out.

“Cut it out,” James says. “That could be our strategy, you know, you going out with her.” He says this mainly to tease Richard, sort of hoping that he won’t jump at the idea.

“Yeah, did you notice the part where I heavily implied that we were a couple?” Richard asks, sliding his hand across the table to grab James’. James can feel his mouth falling open and he flinches violently, only slightly aware of Richard’s pleased little chuckle, his grip on James’ hand solid.

“What the fuck do you think you are playing at?” James hisses, leaning forward and trying to pull his hand away, but Richard’s grip holds.

Richard licks his tongue over his bottom lip slowly, and James’ breath gets caught in his throat. “What?” Richard asks, his eyes wide like cherry pies, his tone low and challenging. “I’m just trying to be convincing.”

“Let _go_ of me,” James says, completely bewildered, looking around to see if they’re drawing a lot of attention yet. It doesn’t look that way, but James knows it won’t stay that way forever. “You fucking maniac.”

Richard’s smirk is the widest James has seen on him yet. After a few more seconds of watching James squirm, Richard releases his hold on James’ hand to take a sip of his idiotic Caramel Latte with whipped cream.

James sulks for the rest of the day. Richard doesn’t seem to notice.


End file.
